


Walking Point

by Queue



Series: Who the Hell Are We? [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queue/pseuds/Queue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to be prepared for the inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts).



 

 

If you’re a leader, you lead the way. Not just on the easy ones. You take the tough ones, too.

*****

This one moment?

Might just finish him off.

Not much has gotten to Dick bone deep since he left his country-peaceful piece of land to serve that country on other shores. Not the calming water at Berchtesgaden. Not Sobel and Curahee. Not even (and this, by God, is saying something) that typewritten room at HQ, watching Moose take Dick’s men—his men, _his_ —out into the bloody night to chase the myth of Pegasus on the word of a suicidal Brit.

But Nix’s tentative mouth, open and wanting under those wary eyes, with every other grunt and point-winner maybe looking on if they don’t have anything better to do with their time in the homecoming spotlight?

That mouth might very well be Dick’s undoing.

He stares at his partner down the length of New York’s improbably welcoming gangplank, fall-damp ticker tape flecking his collar and the din of ignorant civilian joy rooting him where he stands. Nix’s worn booted toes—Army shitkickers still, though the man’s been a civilian since September—graze the dock’s edge, his eyes meeting Dick’s as though nothing that’s left to lose could ever be worth fighting harder for than this.

Lipton’s voice echoes in Dick’s head, pragmatic and resigned: “there are two basic types of fighting positions, and the first is …”

the first is prepared.

Which Dick is not. No. Not a chance.

Because nothing about his time with Nix since they started at Toccoa in ’42 has even hinted at the path that unwavering gaze seems to be lighting up for him.

No, sir. Nothing.

VAT 69 in his footlocker? Which really even Dick knows is post-Prohibition rotgut not worthy of the name? Nothing he could have said—unless he wanted to betray a fellow officer, which is Just Not Done.

Stray bullet to the helmet during Market Garden and the cold fear gripping his throat as he watched Nix go down in its wake? Hazard of war. Risk one takes on in service of one’s country. Everyone sees that sort of action at some point—and if Dame Fortune’s smile is shining your way, you make it through, with at least some of the ones who matter to you still standing by your side. Nothing ventured and all that.

That pitcher of piss he aimed at Nix’s willfully sleepy head: of course he knew what it was. Of course. But that was simply mockery where mockery was due, proof he’d learned Nix’s language and could give as good as he got. Because that’s how you poke fun at the boys who know you best, isn’t it.

Isn’t it?

And if your trunks get tight and your head light when one of those boys—the smart one, the sly one, the one who hurts when you don’t expect him to, maybe the most important one there is—comes to you unexpectedly as you splash and splutter your way out of a German river and tells you it’s done and offers you the chance to move to where he’ll be when you both go back home?

The opportunity to be important to him even after the cold, ragged drive of wartime necessity eases up and lets go for a while?

Well, now.

That must be relief. Or the welcome cleansing warmth of that water all over your body after so many filthy months.

Loneliness. Or the knee-weakening reassurance of knowing that the men— _your_ men, those who survived the camp and the collaborators, the skeletons and the sorrow—might make it home to their loved ones after all.

Must be one of those things fueling that burn low and tight in Dick’s belly.

Maybe all of them.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he’s lying to himself.

Maybe it’s Nix. Maybe it’s always been Nix.

Maybe it’s time to find out for sure.

The shove from behind nearly knocks Dick over the ropes into the harbor before his knees stiffen to hold him up, defensive instincts worn thin after years of constant, weary wariness. “Hey, buddy, move it, why don’t you, the rest of us want off this fucking—Jesus, _Major._ Sorry.” John Martin’s hard voice, the tone of a man used to having his orders obeyed, softens abruptly into apology.  

Dick blinks, feeling the spike of pins and needles in his feet—good Lord, how long has he been standing there staring?—and straightens himself to attention.

“No apology necessary, Sergeant,” he says. “Woolgathering merits a reprimand.” Martin laughs and salutes, pushing past him to join the increasing flow of khaki and caps down the gangplank. Dick touches his own head briefly, giving in to the impulse to check that all is as it should be—as he wants it to be.

Then, squaring his shoulders as a soldier should, he moves into the stream of men and lets himself be carried forward.

At the bottom of the ramp, he steps aside, leaning back against the ropes and folding his arms in what he already knows is a vain attempt at shielding himself from … whatever it is that’s coming for him.

Coming _to_ him.

The next instant, Nix is there, hands deep in his pockets and a ridiculous grin threatening to split his miraculously familiar face.

“Quit looking at me like that,” Dick says, feeling one corner of his mouth turn up even as he fights to keep his face command-solemn.

“Christ, Dick, you started it.” Nix’s smile lights up the space between them, wry and inviting, and a shiver runs up Dick’s spine. He doesn’t realize he’s lost his hand to the man who’s come to meet him until he registers the pull on his shoulder as Nix tries to haul him into—a _hug_ , Jesus, here?

“Not here, Nix.” He swallows, knowing there’s more to say—more to make clear that he means _later_ , not _now_ , but not _never_. “I will— I can— it’s fine— just not in front of—”

“Of who, _mon capitaine_?” The smile twists, mocking them both a little. Mockery again, Dick thinks, Nix’s blessedly familiar native tongue. He knows this language. Thank God. “There’s nobody here, man.” Dick arches a brow, and Nix laughs. “Nobody who matters. _Quid vult, valde vult_. An old schoolmaster of mine used to say that. ‘What they do, they do with a will.’ Will you, Dick?”

“Will I what?” Dick’s feet may be on a road he only barely saw coming, but his native caution’s not yet down for the count.

“Eat with me. _Dine_ with me, even.” Nix sweeps his arm out dramatically before him, like he’s ushering Dick somewhere fine and important. “It’s Friday night in New York City, Major. Come have a drink and a bite with me. At least do that.”

“I don’t—”

“Of water, Dick.” Nix’s face is suddenly inches away, his smile fading into a look of unexpected intensity. “Water, coffee, ambrosia. French, Italian, Chinese. Whatever you like, Dick. Whatever you want. Just—come with me. That’s what’s important.”

“Yes,” Dick says, and holds out his own scarred hand.

*****

A good leader has to understand the people that are under him. Understand their needs, their desires. How they think, a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for NYR 2012 for the following prompt:
> 
> I am all over the Winters/Nixon, at any point - in the canon timeline, after the war is over, whatever works. Or gen about their friendship, and support for each other as they made their way up the chain. Also gen about Winters' struggles with command, during the war. If you find this too difficult or aren't into slash, and would like alternatives - I also love Lipton and Speirs like burning and would love any gen about them, or their hinted-at friendship. Or slash. It would all be like heaven to me. I also love Malarkey...hell, I love all of them. Write whatever, and I'll love it.


End file.
